For when the writers bell tolls, an often frequent inanity of verse-less—monthly mental chills thwart the desire to pen—he drives on… shear desperation, whatever he will flows awkwardly as ink blots on oil spills—futility presses forth tripe and driveled lines untold, senseless his mind is stopped, empty silence shows the glaring, disconnected sensory nerves and the disappoint of a writless morn.

Congratulations!! I’m glad you could write this. 😄 Looks like this wolf’s really going to burn the world down, just like Fireflyyy!! So, Samepinchhhh. 😹 Your words remind me of a tv series I used to watch huh. Paints a vivid picture. ❤